


What The King Saw

by logorrhea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Reality, Conspiracy, F/M, Fix-it fic, Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logorrhea/pseuds/logorrhea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And what the King did.<br/>Fix-it fic on the premise of Robert Baratheon being brought back to life by the Stranger and the consequences thereafter. Wherein things are more functional but Joffrey is still broken at his core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What The King Saw

**Author's Note:**

> Other pairings include: Robert/Cersei, Jaime/Cersei, Joffrey/Sansa, Rob/Myrcella, Ned/Catelyn, Tyrion/whores. Extreme liberties were taken with Robert's character, because he sobered up fast what with coming back from the dead _after_ seeing everyone he knew and loved dying as a consequence of his death.

_So,_ Robert Baratheon thinks, floating in a sea of nothing, _This is death._

Someone appears before him. Or perhaps it is after. Either way, there is something in the place of the nothing: a torrent of pictures, moving people, moving faces. It takes him a moment to recognize who these people are. Cersei, Ned, Catelyn, Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, the Stark children, Stannis, Renly... their faces parade about him and he watches them fall.

 _You care,_ he hears. And he realizes: yes, yes he does care.

 _Why do you show me these images?_ he demands after some time -- sometime between his dear friend's head being hung on the walls and his eldest son coughing up blood. They do not stop, however, and he watches a girl he does not know (yet knows all too well) set fire to his kingdom. _Stop, stop,_ he begs, he weeps. _I can do nothing, what good is this knowledge?_

This is the trouble when dealing with gods. It always comes down to begging: your humanity against their certainty.

A whisper of nightshade cloaks appear before him. Ah, he thinks, so The Seven did exist.

 _King,_ the Stranger addresses him. Instinctively, he stoops to a bow and finds himself incapable of doing so because the dead cannot pay their respects. _You are wrong._

Wrong? But how?  
He isn't given the chance to voice such concerns. An ice-clear hand reaches out and the hood pulls back. He sees a face he had forgotten and remembers the words of his septon.

_Even in kindness, the gods are always cruel._

-

Robert Baratheon wakes with a start, clutching first as his chest, then his face, then his hair.

The Silent Sister who had been tending to his corpse bolts up, only to let a weak high-pitched whimper before dropping to the floor in a dead faint.

I'm alive, he ascertains, right as a Septa dashes in to see the commotion.

"Y-Y-Your Grace!" she gasps, breaking into a curtsy, "You're alive!"

"By the grace of the Seven," he dryly replies, pushing himself off the altar. "What's happening? How long have I been out?"

"Less than a day! But the Queen she -- your son, he -- oh, but your Hand -- " Coherency fails her and she ceases babbling altogether, pointing firmly in a direction he knows full well.

"Can't even rest in peace..." he grumbles, stalking off to the throne room.

-

"Would that I could," he hears his best friend begin, "Your son has no claim to the throne he sits."

" _Ned_!" he roars, thowing open the door.

The entire court stares at him, stares at his grand entrance, and he spies the piece of parchment he had handed his hand in tatters at Cersei's feet.

"Robert -- you're -- you're alive?" Ned Stark exclaims, running up and giving the king's shoulder's a good shake. Cersei nearly falls off her chair as Myrcella and Tommen dissolve into tears.

"Your Grace!" Ser Barrister shouts, kneeling immediately. Similar cries ring out from the other knights.

"Yes, yes, and a warm greeting to you all as well," he returns, waving his hand. He looks at his golden-haired son and frowns. "Boy," he says, "What do you think you're doing on that throne?"

Joffrey blubbers something or another, but he quickly removes himself.

Robert Baratheon stares down the rest of his court.

"A private audience with my Hand and my Queen, if you will?" he mutters.

The others cannot flee fast enough. Their jerky movements are enough to make him smirk. He may have lost the title of 'Kingslayer', but not even Jaime Lannister could claim to have returned from the dead.

Cersei hesitates. She is a queen, a mother, and a Lannister of Casterly Rock and it is a matter of which comes first. And again, Robert is unsurprised when she chooses to stay. She's always been better at defending than consoling, after all.

"Care for your brother," she whispers to her daughter, pushing the nine-year-old girl along. Although Tommen has yet to be shuffled into his chambers, Myrcella has little wonder which brother her mother is referring to. The dutiful daughter dutifully nods and grabs her older brother's hand.

The prince and princess exit, leaving the three of them.

-

"Thank the Seven you're alive!" Ned praises, shaking his shoulder once again. "I wasn't going to tell you this in your condition but -- "

"Be quiet," Robert bites back, shrugging off the hand and turning to his queen. "You." he says, tone surprisingly level, "You tried to kill me."

"But that's treason!" Ned exclaims, eyes widening.

Cersei says nothing in defence.

Robert watches her, because seventeen years is a long time, longer still with a loveless marriage. Her eyes flicker from the throne to the door -- from the promise of power to the welfare of her children. Finally, her lips curl into a sweet smile and she curtseys like their first meeting, bringing herself low.

"Nonsense," she assures him, "There is no lost love between the two of us, but I am Lannister and Lannisters always pay their dues."

He barks out a laugh, taking the steps two at a time to rest himself on the Iron Throne -- _his_ Iron Throne. He looks from his friend to his wife and laughs again, with more sadness.

The things I've seen, he wants to tell Ned -- hell, wants to tell Cersei because it's the heads of their children who will be rolling -- You wouldn't believe me, but they're real.

"Robert?" Ned asks.

Hand and Queen exchange a terse glance.

"...Your Grace?" Cersei tries, reaching forth to touch his upper arm.

Perhaps this too is the Stranger's sorcery: the lightness of her fingertips evoke a wealth of memories. Their sordid first night together, how he beat her black and blue upon discovering him with a whore, how he had sent Joffrey to the ward for weeks because of his own fear of cats, how he tried to be better for Myrcella and Tommen. He thinks of the rumors; he thinks of the truth; and he thinks of the future that was certainly _a_ truth.

"Ned."

"Yes?"

"As the Hand of the King, what would you advise me to do in this situation?"

Cersei pales and he finds he's still enough of a boy to relish her trepidation.

"Your Grace, please -- " she starts. He raises a hand and she stops.

"Ned?" he asks again.

Eddard Stark stares from husband to wife -- from his comrade-in-arms to his would-be murderess ( _their_ would-be murderess) -- and swallows hard.

"Your Grace, I believe it would be most prudent to send the current Queen and her children away. You are no longer a young man, but that does not mean it is too late to sire a true heir."

"You lie," Cersei spits. Robert silences her with a glance.

"Do you have proof?" he asks.

Ned purses his lips but does not spare the Queen a glance. He takes out another leaflet, this time ripped from a book, and steps up to the throne.

"Lord Stannis has discovered the same," he confesses.

Cersei is now stark white. In her nervousness, she has taken to rubbing the brilliant red ruby encircling her index finger.

-

It is good that Tommen was taken back, Myrcella thinks. Joffrey is pacing relentlessly outside the throne room and she doubts he would hesitate to backhand their younger brother for his inevitably incessant questions.

 _Joff, what's going on? Joff, how come Father is alive? Joff, I thought you were supposed to be king._ And so on and so forth.

Still, it is a relief to have her father back. She curls herself up and prays, prays hard in thanks for the return of her father.

"What are you doing?" her older brother demands once he stops pacing long enough to spare her a glance.

"I'm glad Father's back," she murmurs, and he cracks up laughing.

"You'd call him father after that fiasco?" he leans down to pat her cheeks, more than a little mad, "Didn't you hear his Hand? We're not his children! We'll probably get booted out on the next ship, if our whore of a mother doesn't -- "

She reaches up and pinches his nose, right as Robert's bellow reverberates through the castle.

" _He is my son and heir, your meddling theories be damned!_ "

-

Cersei actually does fall off her chair then, crumpling to the floor in peals of laughter.

Once again, Robert ignores her.

"I've lived with him under my roof for thirteen years. I've hand-picked his tutors and commissioned his sword and crossbow, and you mean to tell me that that boy isn't my son?"

Ned stammers something about Baratheon children having brown hair and blue eyes.

Robert snorts. "Well, with that logic, I'm guessing you're saying Myrcella and Tommen aren't mine either then?"

"That is precisely what I'm saying," Ned retorts, looking him in the eye.

Were he not sitting on the throne, he would have fallen to the floor. As it was, he realizes what the Stranger had not shown him.

"Then..." he looks back to Cersei, eyes wide with vicious mirth, "Then, the father...?"

"There is no proof yet but we suspect..."

Ned says the truth and Cersei stands up, slapping him fully across the face. A red bruise blossoms, but he does not flinch.

Robert heaves a sigh. The Stranger has promised him nothing and he does not know how long he has. It is one thing to birth a bastard and another thing to raise a crown prince. And to say nothing of the Lannisters who had helped him secure the throne. But then, to ignore the Starks...

The cruelty of the gods; to know _everything_ and make him choose from such.

"I may not have been a father to Joffrey," he begins, "But I have never regarded him as anything less than a son."

-

"Mother!" Myrcella exclaims when the queen alone exits the throne room.

"Sweetlings," Cersei murmurs, hugging them tight and kissing both their foreheads.

She doesn't say anything else however, just holds them close and rocks them back and forth.

After some time, both children relax into the embrace.

-

"Are you out of your mind?!" Ned demands, shoving the damning piece of evidence into his friend's face.

"Were I any other man... no, had this been any other time, you would be in the right, my dear old friend," Robert admits.

Then and there, Ned Stark lifts up his wrists, first the right and then the left, and then checks each of pupils.

"Satisfied?" Robert asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Hardly. Who are you and what have you done with that fat old man?"

"When you told me the truth, I... I was -- relieved."

"Relieved? But -- but you -- " the pieces snap together and a flash of grief crosses Eddard Stark's expression. "Robert, the good brother of my heart, you can only mourn her for so long."

"Can I?" he retorts, chest clenching at the thought.

"It's been years," is the same sober reply.

"So it has."

_And now, my memory holds not even her face._

"I need you here," Robert says. "But I need Cersei too. She's been my queen since the start of my reign. And I need a son."

"Well she didn't give you that, that's for certain."

Frowning, Robert pulls the paper from his friend's hands, folding it in half before ripping it twice.

"Joffrey is my son and heir," he repeats, "It's been that way for thirteen years and it'll be that way 'till I die."

Ned stares. And stares and stares.

Finally, he nods, falling to a kneel.

"If you are satisfied with that Your Grace, then I can advise you no further on the matter."

"Thank you," Robert says, leaning back. "Please, old friend, I ask permission to grant you a boon."

"Start attending smallcouncil meetings from now on," Ned replies without missing a beat.

Robert blinks, and then laughs.

"Well played, well played. Then, I shall see you at the next meeting, My Hand."

"Yes Your Grace," Ned says, standing up. He walks off of the dais, turning on the last step. "I am happy to have you alive, you fat drunk stag."

"Watch your own stomach, you mangy wolf," Robert is quick to bite back. "Oh, and call Joffrey in, will you? His mother's still sobbing outside, no doubt."

-

"You've no doubt heard the rumors."

The boy nods.

"Well, I've come back from the dead to tell you that there's no proof and that you're still my son."

"What about that bastard wolf?" Joffrey immediately demands, "WIll his tongue be cut for spewing such garbage?"

Robert stares, shakes his head, and then chuckles. He does not, however, fail to see his son flinch.

"He may be a bastard wolf, but he's still your father's old friend and Hand," Robert easily replies, standing up from the throne.

Joffrey frowns but otherwise keeps silent. And in his visage, Robert swears he can see a little of himself.

"Give me your sword," he sighs, holding out his hand.

Joffrey hesitates, but only for a second. Then he unsheathes his new blade and presses the hilt into his father's hands.

"My!" the king murmurs, "This is a pretty little thing! And heavy too! Have you learnt how to spar with it?"

"...I have." His palms are sweating and his heart is racing. He does not understand the change of events but this is already the single longest conversation he's held with his father.

"And which hand do you prefer?"

"Left," the boy admits, looking away for shame. "But I can parry well enough with my right."

"Don't fret boy," Robert laughs, "I favor my left hand too."

"It's the hand of kings, isn't it?" his son asks.

Robert baratheon looks down and sees a thirteen-year-old boy, desperate to please. His _son_ , he acknowledges without thinking.

"It's already time for supper, but what plans have you for the 'morrow?"

Joffrey blinks. He cannot believe his ears.

"N-None. None at all, Your Grace," he stammers.

"Can you hunt?" Robert asks.

"I..." he flushes, looking away, "Mother won't let me. She says it's the sport of commoners. Her Dog won't let me either."

Robert clasps a heavy hand over his son's shoulder then. And he thinks: _ah, this is my son._

"Boy," he says instead, "How well can you keep a secret from your mother?"

Thirteen years in his fatherhood and he realizes: his son's smile can light up the room.

\---

True to his word, Robert begins attending council meetings the following week. At first the other members of the smallcouncil -- Varys and Littlefinger in-particular -- are constantly on-edge. It is a bit of an embarrassment, realizing that _he_ had been the one to appoint these men to their positions and, like Cersei, they had plotted to off him at some point.

Retribution is tempting yes, but he is a changed man.

"I don't know what it is," Ned tells him at the adjournment of his fifth session with the council in years, "But you're a changed man."

"I know," Robert says. Then he swings an arm around his friend's shoulder. "The sun is still bright and the town is so close," he says and Ned laughs. Because in the end, some things don't change.

-

Cersei pays a visit to his chambers after he's drunk his fill, veins pulsing with the pleasant lull of alcohol.

"What's the matter?" he asks. He's learned to recognize those footsteps.

"Tis nothing Your Grace," she says, and he catches her stepping back in the corner of his eye. There is a glimmer of metal near her fingertips.

"There is still hope yet," he tells her. And when she doesn't respond, he elaborates: "The boy, I mean."

"He is a brilliant child," Cersei immediately replies, "Although we mourned your passing, he was ready to take the throne. As he had been prepared his life."

"For thirteen years I picked his tutors," Robert mutters. "And I never even asked how he'd done."

"There was no need," his queen scoffs, "Joffrey is proficient with all subjects. Above proficient even, when it comes to long range combat."

"Heh. You should've seen him take to the hunt... he'll bag a doe before the end of the season no doubt." He turns his head to catch his wife in the act of treason yet again. "Oh put that dagger away, for the love of the Seven. I've already told you I have no interest in disinheriting him, nor do I have any intent to remove you or the other two."

Cersei opens her mouth and, finding nothing worth saying, closes it. She does put the dagger away, however.

"You may go," the king says.

-

"What do you mean he found out?!" Jaime demands.

"Ned told him. And then -- no, Jaime, _no_! Nothing has happened. Nothing is to happen."

Still, his attention only swerves from the king when she bares herself. He commences a meticulous inspection and, upon finding no harm, kisses her deeply.

What happened, her twin asks, and she tells him.

Afterwards, they lay together, legs and hands intertwined as in childhood, and she whispers her darkest secrets into his ear.

"I've never seen Joff so happy before."

Her brother laughs.

"Well, the love of a father will do that for a neglected boy." He thinks of Tyrion and Cersei tenses. He laughs again and kisses her brow. "You are the love of my life," he murmurs, "But I am still no more than an uncle for them."

"Thirteen was too young," she says instead.

"It was."

"I would have ruled for him." A lie.

"No. Father would have ruled for you." Another lie.

 _What about us,_ she's on the verge of asking. And then he closes the distance between the two of them and she forgets -- forgets everything else.

-

"What's happened?" Tommen asks of her. "How did Father come back? Why was Mother crying? Is Joff not king anymore?"

"No, little brother," Myrcella replies, smoothing down his hair and pressing a kiss to his brow.

"That's good," Tommen replies, hugging her tight. "I'm glad that Father is back. Now everything will be alright."

"Too soon to say that," the princess laughs, ruffling his hair.

"Oh! The cook said I could have a kitten! He said I could have three!"

"Oh? And have they been weaned from their mother yet?"

"Kittens have to stay with their mother?" Tommen asks, instantly deflating, "Forever?"

"Not forever. A couple moons, at most."

"Oh." The eight-year-old boy brightens considerably. "Do you want to go see them?"

"Of course!" she grins and the two of them take off.

-

Ned Stark welcomes the return of his family -- well, everyone save for Bran.

"What happened?" Catelyn asks, pulling them all into a tight embrace. "Oh, my sweet girls! Arya, your dress is a mess. And Sansa, how many times have I told you about posture?"

"Good to see you too, mother dearest," the younger daughter drawls. But then she relents and hugs back too, and Ned feels his heart swell.

"What happened?" Robb demands again, "Lord Father, we'd heard the most dreadful of news. And yet, here you are, alive and well!"

"Your boy was preparing an _army_ to take you back home," Catelyn preens, pinching her eldest son's cheek. Robb flushes and crosses his arms, kicking at the ground.

"Well, it was just -- we had heard -- "

Ned cuts his son off then, grabbing his shoulders and going for a bone-crunching hug of his own.

"You've grown up," his father tells him.

-

"So what really happened?" Catelyn demands after they've shuffled into their own quarters.

"Robert Baratheon came back from the dead a changed man," he truthfully says, shrugging.

"And his children? Did you tell him the truth?"

"Well, it just so happened that..." he pauses, turning to look at her, "Eavesdropping again, Cat?"

She giggles like a girl, rolling her hips against his.

"Well," he groans right as she covers his lips once more, "Lets just say it looks like Sansa will still be a queen."

-

"It's been _months_ ," Cersei grinds out, "And while I understand the king has asked you to come along on so many of his hunts, need I remind you that you are courting a young lady?"

Joffrey purses his lips. He understands how much of _everything_ he's just received. Knows it's foolish to still feel unsatisfied. Still, the tell-tale clench of his jaw does not elude his mother, who frowns and attributes it to the wrong things.

"I've been busy," her son grumbles.

"Busy shooting at whatever moved!" his mother admonishes. "I'm not telling you to hover about her like a familiar, but a trinket every now and then would buy a good amount of affection."

"Are girls really so simple?"

Cersei laughs.

" _People_ are all so simple."

-

Myrcella, of all people, accosts him when he exits the queen's chambers. She's already ten, he remembers, and the talk of the court is her enviable swell of suitors.

"Myrcella," he greets with a nod, "Were you looking for an audience with our Lady Mother?"

"Not at the moment," she murmurs, giving a quick curtsey before keeping the pace a couple steps behind him. "And how was the last hunt, brother?"

He blinks in surprise at the unusual address and falters for a moment.

"Thrilling," he finally says. "Father let me try out my crossbow on deer this time. I ended up falling off of the horse but -- oh, don't make such a face Myrcella, it was just a spot of blood -- I managed to take the deer down with me. And it was a young doe too."

She claps her hands, "Tommen has said he wants to join the hunt someday."

"Him? Maybe when he stops falling off the practice horse," Joffrey laughs.

They walk in silence for a couple moments before Myrcella steels herself and tugs on his sleeve.

He turns and she stops altogether, scrutinizing the floor.

"What is it?" he asks, frowning, "I haven't much time." The Hound has promised him a spar in the afternoon, and he still needs to see to a proper gift for Sansa.

"Brother," Myrcella repeats, "I could not help but notice that you continue to seem unsatisfied with your bethrothed."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he demands, towering two heads above her (ah, but she's growing, he knows).

"Oh, well, I was just thinking -- " she stumbles here then, looking up at him with her cheeks girlishly flushed, "If I might help you convince our Lady Mother and King Father from the idea." She takes his stunned silence as encouragement, continuing with: "I know Father wishes us to unite with the Starks, and I was thinking, if you did not want Lady Sansa then I could -- "

Joffrey laughs again, forcefully swallowing the treacherous lump forming in his throat.

"Don't play a fool Myrcella," he cuts her off. "You're far too young to be plotting such things."

She flushes even deeper and reconnects her gaze with the floor.

"Of course," she mumbles, letting go of his sleeve. "My apologies. I'll leave you to your -- "

He grabs her hand and digs about his pocket, thrusting a doe hoof into her open palm. She looks at him with questioning eyes and he quickly lets go, turning away and stalking down the hallway.

Varys the eunuch watches from a ways away, a slow smile spreading on his lips at the encounter. And then, across the courtyard, he spies the king himself and nearly swallows his own tongue.

Robert presses a finger to his lips and returns to his own chambers.

-

"My sweet boy," Cersei coos, wrapping her arms about her son. "That was a lovely necklace to commission. I'm sure your Lady Sansa is very pleased."

"Then I am glad -- Mother."

-

"We could arrange for the girl to die," Varys suggests, swirling a glass of warm wine.

Robert scowls and, with great effort, refrains from throwing his glass at the scheming councilman.

"That girl is my daughter."

"Oh yes, of course." The other man laughs an airy little laugh. "Tell me Your Grace, do you look forward to being remembered as the cuckholded king?"

Robert snorts. "The dead have no use for history."

"True, true," Varys admits, sipping slowly and smiling even slower. "But history has much use for the dead."

-

"Never!" Cersei shrieks, throwing her goblet across the room. It lands with a smash, in pieces.

"It's for her own good," Robert insists.

"Are we under siege?" his wife demands, "Are we at war? Is there some group we need to broker an agreement with?"

"No, but -- "

"Myrcella is my only daughter. She's a sweet girl who wouldn't harm a soul. Why on earth do you want to send her away?!"

"Because she's a sweet girl of ten years who wouldn't harm a soul," Robert replies, finishing off his own cup and pouring another glass. He had known Cersei would be difficult to convince, but he hadn't thought she would be so vehemently against the idea.

"I will hide her away, if need be. Her and Tommen both."

"Your jealousy is hardly becoming," he tries.

"And your attempts to ship _my children_ off like livestock fail to endear," she snaps back.

"They're not just your children!" he roars, getting to his feet. "And if you took the time to observe them for more than once in a fortnight, you'd see the way your boy looks at his sister!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Cersei scoffs, crossing her arms and not batting an eye, "It's one thing to be aware, but to be this paranoid? Myrcella and Tommen are -- "

"I'm talking," the king grates, "About Joffrey."

Cersei pales. And then she presses a hand to her mouth.

"Are you so blind a mother?" Robert demands.

She backhands his cheek, pushes herself to her feet, and leaves the chamber in a flurry of humiliated rage.

Robert rubs his cheek and sits back down, pouring himself yet another glass.

-

"My, my, my," Tyrion chortles, stroking his beard, "What brings you down here, my dear elder sister?"

"Shut up dwarf," Cersei snaps. "I have need for your..."

"My lust? Well if Jaime's given his consent..."

"No, you wretched imp. I have need for your _advice_." It pains her to grind it out, but with Jaime away on a campaign and Robert ever more determined to marry her only daughter off to the highest bidder and with the treasury teetering on the brink of _recovery_ and the seven kingdoms on the cusp of true unification...

"My advice?" Tyrion guffaws, "Oh sweet sister, you need only ask! In fact..."

She lets her little brother milk the moment for all its worth before standing up.

"I was a fool to expect any serious consideration," she bites, gliding to the door. No matter, thereare always puppets on the smallcouncil.

"No, no, I'm done gloating," Tyrion says, pulling her back. "Though, for Queen Cersei herself to come to my humble chambers! Tell me, sister dearest, what may I help you with?"

She describes Robert's accusations.

Tyrion shrugs at the end of it. "And you've not confirmed such things?"

"I would be mad to risk asking," she replies, cursing internally. And she had just convinced Joffrey to properly court the Stark girl too!

"So you want me to find out?"

"If you believe you have the means."

"A young man in love?" her brother scoffs, "They only _ever_ wear their hearts on their sleeves."

-

Tyrion waits and watches. He does it because his sister is still queen, and her good favor is something worth currying. But there is also a sick sense of fascination, the idea of tragedy repeating itself through their bloodline.

He chuckles darkly at his own inglorious thoughts. And to think these children called him uncle.

Myrcella remains as sweet as she's ever been, and Tommen the same soft-hearted boy. Cersei, whatever façade of lioness she felt the need to maintain, seemed to drop all pretense before her the two younger children. His older nephew then, was not so fortunate, though she still managed to _lavish_ attention upon him.

Still, with Robert's change in heart, it looked like Joffrey would shape up to be a decent man in the end. There was a new sense of humanity instilled in his nephew. Being his siblings, Tommen and Myrcella had been the first to pick up the subtle change, going so far as to ask their older brother to help with their own lessons. And Joffrey -- by the grace of the Seven -- had actually obliged. Tyrion swears he would've eaten his sock had anyone else suggested the idea.

The thing is: between Robert aiming for reunification of the seven kingdoms and Ned Stark actually having a decent head on his shoulders, there is an endless stream of _details_ that someone with wits must attend to. Jaime tries to help as best he can, but unfortunately, his older brother is all beauty and brawn -- for him, the subtler machinations are lost entirely.

But Jaime has changed and with him, Cersei too. Before, she would have turned a blind eye to the possibility of a recurrence. But now...

"Robert Baratheon," Tyrion mutters to himself, fiddling with the cork of a winebottle, "You're a better man than I gave you credit for."

The problem with observing Joffrey and Myrcella -- outside of Tyrion's own hectic schedule -- is the lack of interaction between the two of them. Outside of sitting together at dinner and cheering together at the jousts, the only other time the two of them converse is when Tommen experiences difficulty with his lessons. And then it's the tittering of older siblings and Tyrion feels a fresh stab of envy -- the age difference between the three of them was negligible admittedly, but still.

But then, Tommen wasn't born deformed.

-

"Nothing?" Cersei echoes, shoulders slouching with relief.

"Not that I've seen," Tyrion gruffly replies, taking his leave.

Figures: that in his older sister's relief, she hadn't even bothered thanking him.

No matter; he's used to disappointment.

-

"Has he stopped?" Joffrey asks his younger brother.

"I-I think so..." Tommen replies. His eyes glance from side-to-side, fearful of being caught in the act. Here he was, a boy of ten years, finally acting without the express permission of his Lady Mother!

There's a certain conspiratorial swell in his chest, aided by his older brother's sly grin.

"Good," Joffrey says, lips curling in a smile. "Mind you, there was nothing to see. But I dislike the thought of being judged by an imp." His younger brother wordlessly fiddles with the lace on the edge of his sleeves. "Say Tommen, you've been sparring well."

"H-Have I really, Joff?" Tommen stammers, grip tightening.

"You have." A pause, and then a friendly swing of arm over shoulders. In the dead of winter, Tommen is growing like a sprout, though Joffrey is still a good deal taller. "How would you like to aid me on the next fortnight's hunt? I would like to have a brother along."

"Would I!" the little boy exclaims, clapping his hands.

"Prepare yourself then," Joffrey shrugs as the call of Tommen's tutor interrupts.

"I'll get a rabbit! A big soft one! And bring its skin back to Myrcella!" Tommen exuberates, grinning widely.

"So you shall," his older brother laughs.

-

"You shan't be sending Myrcella away," Cersei triumphantly declares.

Robert looks up from the tally of gold -- equilibrated for the first time in years -- and it takes him a while to remember what his wife was speaking about. "Oh," he says, setting the charts aside, "That."

"Yes _that_ ," Cersei archly replies.

"No matter," he shrugs, "I've decided she's best to be wed to Robb Stark."

"You wouldn't!"

"When she comes of age, of course."

"Her first blood, you mean?"

"Why not? It's the same reasoning for his sister and our son, isn't it?"

"I will not have two of my children mixing their blood with wolves," Cersei sniffs. "And you forget: Myrcella is a _princess_."

"What age would you have her married off then? Ten-and-seven? Ten-and-nine? She'll be an old maid, your mother's love be damned!"

"Myrcella is my only daughter."

"So, her only mother, I ask you again: what age _would_ you have her be married off?"

Cersei frowns and then drums her fingers on the edge of his table.

"Ten-and-four," she relents. "But -- not to the wolf boy. I want her to marry a prince."

"Ten-and-four it is," her husband acquiesces. "But it will be to the wolf boy if you want her happiness. The girl's been enamoured for _years_ , have you not taken note?"

The queen recoils as if he had struck her. And in a sense, he had. Robert Baratheon smiles with grim amusement; and here he had finally decided to be a father, only to discover the mother was blind.

"This cannot be," she mutters, hurrying away.

Robert sighs and unfolds the maps, returning to his unification plans yet again. Ned and the others would return from campaign soon enough. And though he had been a leader in name alone for years, it hardly meant the bloodlust in his heart had grown dull.

-

"You again?" Tyrion asks with his face wedged between the round thighs of some whore. "My dear sister, visiting me twice in a fortnight. Such good luck, wouldn't you say my dear Nysa?"

"It's Lyanne," the whore giggles, pulling him up for a kiss before drunkenly toddling off.

"You're incorrigible," his sister snorts.

"Ah, ah, I could say the same for you," Tyrion retorts, pulling his trousers back on. "Now. My dear queen, what can I do for you this eve?"

Cersei tells him Robert's latest plot. Her youngest brother laughs in her face.

"And here I thought you only had eyes for your children!" the dwarf guffaws. "What was all this 'my only daughter, my only dau-au-ha-ha-ha-ter' business?" he cackles.

"So it's true?"

"It's plain as day and I'm shocked you could not see it."

The thing is: while Tyrion might know people, Cersei knows her children. She flushes and flusters and leaves Tyrion's chamber in a similar state as she had left Robert's.

-

"Your father plans to marry Myrcella to Robb Stark," Cersei tells her son the first thing the next morning.

"He wouldn't," Joffrey growls.

"He's said he will."

"But I'm to be married to his sister."

"And you still will."

"Then why is he marrying Myrcella off?"

"Apparently he wants our houses to be _truly_ entertwined," Cersei huffs.

"I shan't allow it!" her son of ten-and-five howls.

"I feel the same."

"I'll annul the marriage," Joffrey hisses, as if he had not heard. "I shan't allow her to consummate it. When I'm king... when I'm king..."

Through his tantrum, Cersei sits perfectly still, refusing to react when he throws the fruit bowl or rips the linen.

"I won't allow it," her son reiterates, breaths shallow and harsh. He abruptly turns and stalks out the room.

"Joffrey!"

He pauses. Pauses, but does not turn.

"Where -- where are you going?"

"To spar," he mutters, slamming the door.

-

At the urging of her septa -- who reassured her for the fifth time that the prince was still very much enamored with her and that the decorated deer skull he had presented to her was quite fashionable in King's Landing -- Sansa goes to watch her bethrothed spar.

She seats herself in the foyer adjacent to the courtyard, readying a red rose to congratulate him.

He storms into the courtyard and doesn't spare her a glance, drawing his sword and barking for his tutor to come meet him. The knight scrambles to come meet him -- later, she discovers that the heir apparent had been half an hour early -- and the septa coos about his dress, his walk, his polished tilt, stab, and parry.

But there is a certain coldness to his movements that she cannot ignore.

No matter, Sansa reassures herself (remembering the words of her mother). The good wife was to made her husband a better man. And, to be fair, with the revival of his father, Joffrey had been a better man: he'd even taken the time to apologize to Arya for the ill-gotten death of her direwolf. They hadn't exactly made up, but it wasn't as if Arya could refuse an apology from the crown prince.

"How was it?" Joffrey asks of her, sheathing his sword before leaping over the small ledge separating the two of them.

"Well-struck, my lord," she beams.

"Was it now?" he echoes, taking a wayward curl. She flushes and keeps still.

"It... it was, my lord."

"I see," her prince says, releasing her and stepping back. "If I may have a dance this evening?"

"O-of course!"

"Then -- " he smiles ever so boyishly, and her heart shamelessly flutters, "I shall be counting down the hours."

-

Surprisingly, Joffrey manages to keep his temper in check for the supper, and the hunt, and the later tutoring sessions. In fact, he even acquiesces to taking Tommen along for a brief tour of the south, though the trip is cut short to a fortnight when the boy falls out of the carriage and everyone rushes back to King's Landing for emergency treatment and Cersei gives her husband an extended earful. And through it all, Joffrey manages to look complacent -- sorry, even.

-

The kettle reaches its boiling point when Sandor takes note and quietly points out the boy's newfound frustrations to Tyrion in one of their raunchier drinking sessions.

"The lad's ten-and-five," the uncle chortles, helping himself to another glass, "Hell, it's probably in his blood -- and his nature."

Sandor snorts, but keeps quiet.

Tyrion taps his chin. He's on the cusp of elaborating an idea before his older brother makes his grand appearance, plonking himself down and taking a cup in each hand.

Unfortunately, this means that Tyrion is left with his drunken wits to work with, and for the evening, they think it's the most logical of solutions.

-

He hand-picks the girls, albeit in a drunken stupor.

Two of them, soft and svelte, with pretty voices and gentle hands and sweet, sweet mouths.

"Do not scare the boy," he slurs, "He's only ten-and-six."

"Of course, of course," the girls reply, a heavenly chorus. Drunk as he is, he manages to refrain from sampling his gift.

"Don't worry, Tyrion dear," the latter girl reassures, kissing his cheek, "We'll make sure he has a good time!"

-

Contrary to what his mother insists and what his uncle would like to believe, Joffrey does not, in any sense of the word, see red.

He does not lose control of himself, nor does he black out into bottled rage.

No, instead, he comes back to his room and sees two barely-dressed whores and slowly -- ever so slowly -- lets the fury seep out from him. The girls are laughing -- _laughing_ \-- and they tell him they've been sent from someone who worries. Someone who cares. The kingdom knows he is already bethrothed, but it's not just anyone who can get prostitutes into the inner chambers.

The first smack of leather on flesh is far from satisfying.

He asks her to trade strop for stick and the stick for whip.

Whap, whap, whap.

His trousers are stained with whore's blood and he thinks he can see a sliver of bone. He does not stay after having been satisfied, knows that it's a wicked, wicked thing to have asked for, to have _watched_. He thinks of taking a trophy (this is, after all, a different sort of hunt), but chooses to demand a change of clothes and linens instead.

The servants comply, scattering and scurrying, and by the time he's finished with the bath, the two whores have made themselves scarce.

Good, he thinks, and retires for the evening.

-

"Joff."

The crown prince wakes with a start in the dead of the night to his name being whispered against the shell of his ear.

He scrambles up and scrabbles for the sword that is not there and chokes at the sight of his sister illuminated by a single candle.

"Myrcella!" he admonishes, "What business have you? And at such an hour!" He gives her a quick once-over. "And in such a state too!"

The princess sets the candle-and-holder aside, biting her lower lip.

"Why did you do that?" she asks.

His brow furrows. "Do what?"

"Those horrible things. I heard... I saw..."

For the first time, Joffrey curses the closeness of their chambers.

"Don't let it bother you so," he snorts, "Those were just whores. It's their _job_ to please."

"Not like that!" she insists.

"Don't let it bother you so," Joffrey repeats. "And I would advise you not to concern yourself with such matters, _sister_."

"You've been happier now that Father's come back. And Father's better after having returned from the grave," she blithely starts, "Sometimes, he even lets me dance on his feet."

Her brother chooses not to dignify such comments with a response.

"A king shouldn't hurt people like that," Myrcella murmurs.

Joffrey twitches.

"How many times must I tell you?" he grates, "Those were whores. They weren't women or ladies or queens, they were _whores_."

 _They weren't princesses either,_ his conscience adds.

"But they will still be your subjects," Myrcella argues. She seizes his left hand then, squeezing it tight. "Father is... Father is trying so hard to make you a good king."

He pulls his hand away and ducks back down beneath the sheets, tired of the circular conversation.

"Go back to sleep," he growls.


End file.
